


take another drag (turn me to ashes)

by fallacied



Category: Beast (Band), Troublemaker
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Toxic Relationship, assassin!hyunseung
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8273935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallacied/pseuds/fallacied
Summary: kiss me hard before you go





	

home sweet home, they always said.  
  
home is not sweet, she thinks. home is a dingy little officetel in the shadier part of seoul. home is broken beer bottles and crumpled piles of shirts that reek of alcohol and smoke. home, home is the bitter taste of his mouth, the rough slide of his fingers over her lips, her cheek.  
  
she returns from her graveyard shift as a restaurant server in hongdae to him leaning casually against the kitchen counter, a lit cigarette pinched delicately between tobacco-stained fingers and a gun spinning on the fingertips of his other hand. a gen four glock 22, most likely the one that he'd shown off to her so proudly a few months back, although she notes that it's been modified and looks well-used now.  
  
"you're back." she can't remember the last time she'd seen him. was it yesterday, or maybe a week ago? she squints at his tall figure in the dimly-lit kitchen, realises that he'd cut his hair, dyed it a silvery shade of ash-grey. "you look like one of those sparkly vampires from that stupid american movie."  
  
he takes a long drag, exhales a cloud of toxins that match the colour of his hair. continues spinning the glock, its empty barrel clacking hollowly each time his finger hits the trigger. "mm, that's nice to know." he raises an eyebrow as she turns to head into the bathroom, "what, don't i get a warm welcome home?"  
  
"you wish," she snipes back with a roll of her eyes, shutting herself inside the bathroom and switching on the shower before he can protest.  
  
she lets him kiss her after that, anyway. they fuck on the futon in the tiny half-level that they call a bedroom, all harsh messy movements and teethnailstongue, bleeding lips and ten long scratches gouged down the expanse of back. all lust and no love, she tells herself later on. like usual, he leaves her side right after, heads down in a pair of ratty, unzipped jeans to smoke another cigarette by the front window, the one that overlooks the rest of their neighbourhood. she curls up in a discarded blanket, lighting up her own stick with shaking fingers and watching him flick ashes out the window.  
  
she traces the fresh wounds down his back with her gaze, maps out her own constellations in between the streaks of dried-up dark red. they are under the same roof yet galaxies apart, and she thinks that the distance between them has never been more overwhelming than it is now.  
  
  
  
  
she never questions what he does, what sort of _work_ he's doing when he disappears for days on end, only to return with tattered, bloodstained clothes and a manila envelope bulging with money, all in fifty thousand won notes. the briefcase of semi-autos and revolvers, shiny magazines and the one deadly-looking beretta m12, carelessly hidden in his side of the closet under worn jeans and torn shirts, remains unspoken of. but he doesn't ever forget to pay the bills, the rent, her grocery money, and she supposes that she shouldn't complain; leaves it at that.  
  
and maybe she's too much of a pushover as well, but she doesn't brings up the subject of how he sometimes stumbles home at odd hours of the night with mussed-up hair and smears of lipstick on his collar, the sickly sweet scent of cheap perfume clinging to him like a shadow. how she sometimes finds torn up scraps of paper in the trash that, when pieced together, form looping numbers and flourishing handwriting, _call me soon_ and  _drop by when you're free_ and _thanks for the wonderful night, love_.  
  
jealousy and hurt throb like a too-harsh backbeat in her chest, occasionally manifesting in late-night arguments and shouting matches, _am i not enough for you_ and _don't you fucking trust me_ , _i thought you love me_ and _stop being such a fucking bitch_. manicured fingernail jabbing into chest, _i don't even know what you work as_ , crumpled handful of won notes thrown into face, _or where you get all this money from_ , palm against chest and shoving him backwards, _so tell me, hyunseung, how do i fucking trust you if you don't ever tell me anything?_  
  
he always backs down at that, turns on his heel and stalks out of the apartment. she slumps down by the creaky old refrigerator and cracks open the six-packs of cheap beer she'd bought in a rage-fuelled frenzy days, weeks back. chokes the fizzy liquid down, one can, three cans, six, until all that's left are dented metal thrown carelessly on the stained tiles. her stomach is churning, but she drags herself over to the freezer and hauls out the half-empty bottle of vodka, one of a few, because you can never be too drunk for arguments like these.  
  
he always returns in time to help her to the bathroom, hold her hair back as she gags and vomits out the contents of her stomach. cleans her mess up, carries her to the room and tucks her in, pressing soft kisses and whispered _i'm sorry, i love you_ s into her skin.  
  
(she never mentions either, the times she wakes in the middle of the night to see him sitting on his side of the futon, back facing her and shoulders hunched over, pistol in hand and pressed to his temple as his body shakes with silent sobs.)  
  
  
  
  
there is, she supposes, no point dwelling in past anguishes, because what can you gain from them? she mentions this to him vaguely, one night when they're both in a post-sex, post-weed high. curled up together on the futon and shotgunning cigarettes, inhale-exhales of glitter and poison, lips swollen and fingers digging into skin.  
  
he pulls away after breathing out a lungful of smoke down her throat. twirls the cigarette with an almost heavy expression in his half-hazed over eyes, and she's reminded of that night a few weeks ago when she'd seen him swinging a gun from his fingertips. another drag, a loud hiss when a piece of glowing ash drifts down to land on his bare thigh.  
  
"i," a pause, a wisp of smoke blown out through clenched teeth. "set up a bank account a few months back. the bank in gangnam, i'm sure you know which one. it’s under your name."  
  
she frowns, leans forward to snatch the half-finished light from his fingers. "what for? i have my own account."  
  
"emergencies. the account info and some other things are in my safe. zero-seven-two-nine, don’t open it unless it’s an emergency." the sheets rustle as he gets up, slipping on his rumpled wifebeater and jeans discarded in the corner. he jerks his chin towards the empty box of dunhill switch blues lying next to her. "gonna go downstairs to get a few more packs. you want anything?"  
  
she's still puzzled over his sudden mention of a (secret?) bank account, how he's telling her the code to a safe that he's never allowed her near to, but decides to push it aside for the moment. "kimbap. or whatever you feel like eating. i don't think we've eaten yet."  
  
he leans down to press a gentle kiss to her lips before he leaves. she traces the chapped skin long after the front door slams close, a little stunned because when was the last time he'd done something like that, something so sweetly affectionate?  
  
they have dinner that night huddled together over the kitchen counter, sharing tuna kimbap and candy and a bowl of takeaway jajangmyun. she's laughing at a joke he'd just made and his eyes are crinkled at the edges in an expression she hasn't seen in a long time. she thinks that this is what they call _happiness_. she thinks that it feels nice, like a missing piece of a puzzle put back into place.  
  
but then again, happiness does not last. tomorrow morning, she will wake up to an empty bed and empty apartment, _stay safe. i love you._ scrawled onto the back of an old receipt and stuck to the refrigerator door with one of their tacky souvenir magnets. she will eat a quick breakfast alone, and later at night while cleaning up the apartment after her shift, find that the m12 and ten rounds of bullets are missing from his briefcase. she will push aside the worry, but later on open up his safe, just out of curiosity. on top of the logbooks and a small stack of cash, there will be a note in his neat handwriting, and it will say _if i’ve allowed you to open this up, it means that i’m in danger. take the money, get out of seoul. the account is an emergency fund for you. take care, i love you._  
  
but she will not follow his instructions. she will wait for him in their shabby little officetel, smoking cigarettes by the window and watching the streets at night. she will wait for him, wishing on stars and looking forward to when he will stumble in through the door, sweaty and breathless and in bloodstained clothes, but alive. she will wait, for however long it takes.  
  
hyuna closes her eyes, and exhales another cloud of stardust and hope.


End file.
